


In Your Best Friend's Arms

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Numberless Forms, Numberless Times [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, As a general warning, Car Accidents, Death, Description of being shot, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses, also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He first becomes aware of Death when he's five, sitting in too big clothes on a too big chair. From then on it seems like he's always there, just on the periphery, surveying scenes with an intent.<br/>Death says he has a gift, he doesn't agree.<br/>He knows how he's going to die, but he's not sure anymore if he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Colours and Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Name changes for Characters: Using first letters matching so Gaël is Grantaire, etc. will add more of Les Amis later

The first time he meets the figure he’s five. His legs swing over the edge of the too big plastic chair, its squeaks echoing down the long, dim, empty corridor.  
The figure hadn’t made any noise as they approached, they swished as he stopped outside the door though. And at that he’d looked up.  
They’re wearing a black cape, of all things, down to their ankles where it ripples in folds. It’s hooded, covering their face from this angle, and it falls over their hands like his jumpers do.  
Gaël swings his legs again, he speaks quickly.  
“Mummy told me not to let anyone in. Who are you? You don’t look like a doctor.”  
The figure pauses in front of the door, then turns to face him. Their face, they do have one with eyes and a nose and a mouth, but it swims and distorts until you can no longer make out what their eyes look like, their colour, the shape of their nose, the thickness of their lips.  
They frown, Gaël’s sure they’re frowning.  
“You can see me?” Their voice echoes, mixes distantly.  
Gaël chuckles quietly.  
“Of course I can see you! You’re right there! If you’re trying to hide you’re not doing a very good job of it.”  
“What’s your name?”  
“Augustine Gaël, but I don’t like that, I want Mummy to let people call me Gaël but she says I shouldn’t say things like that.” Gaël pouts, shoulders raising in a little huff.  
“Do you know who I am?”  
“You’re wearing a cape, it looks a bit silly.”  
“It’s cold out.”  
“Then wear a coat.” Gaël says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.  
“Why won’t your mother let people in the room?”  
“Because she says Grandma’s ill and shouldn’t be pestered.”  
“Shall we make this our little secret?” The figure stoops a little and they’re smiling now, behind those ever shifting lips the smile remains almost still. Gaël grins, as little children do when they’re being entrusted with something.  
“Yeah!” The figure stands up then, and it looks like an effort when they do.  
“I’ll see you again.” They say as they step through the door.  
Gaël’s mother is tearful when she emerges, pulling herself together as best she can. She crouches next to Gaël, places a hand on his knee and gives him a small smile.  
“Grandma’s gone to heaven.”  
He doesn’t see the figure leave, not when he’s taken in to say goodbye, and he asks. He asks and asks until his mother snaps at him to stop being so silly.

~~

The figure drifts, rarely speaking, but they’re usually there, somewhere in the periphery of scenes.  
Gaël gives up pointing them out to his parents. They say he has an overactive imagination, that he’s being silly, trying to grab their attention.  
He watches the figure as they pass the wreckage, fingers pressed against the window (And Dad’ll complain about that later). The figure stands, observes as workers work on the bodies of the cars, and then they’re out of sight and Mum is saying to ‘stop looking for God’s sake!’  
Gaël’s sitting in the garden when the figure approaches again. Gaël looks down at his notebook, the vague outlines of a person emerging from the lined paper.  
“It’s you.” He murmurs, but he doesn’t look up.  
“You remember me?”  
“Of course I do. I see you all the time, you just don’t pay attention to me.” The figure cocks their head to one side, and sits beside him.  
“I didn’t realise.”  
“It’s fine.” Gaël smiles, but it’s sad and looks out of place on his young face. “I’m used to it.”  
“I shouldn’t be someone you’re seeking friendship in.” The figure says as they stand.  
“Why can’t anyone else see you?” Gaël asks suddenly, and he studies his drawing with such intent that the lines blur.  
“Because you have a gift.” The figure murmurs.  
When Gaël looks up, they’re gone, and the words fade into the summer breeze.

~~

It’s getting dark, he needs to get home, he knows he does. His legs burn as he hurries down the deserted street.  
He thinks it’s deserted, but there’s a person waiting by the traffic lights that he’s sure wasn’t there before.  
The figure glances across.  
“Why are you waiting for the lights to change?” Gaël asks, and he looks at the button, unpressed. “You’re not going to get very far.” His fingers skim over the button, pressing lightly until the ‘wait’ light comes on.  
“I’m not.” Says the figure, in that strange echoing voice.  
“Then why are you-“  
There’s a sudden squealing of brakes, a pair of head lights flashes, then is cut off by a shape with a hideous crunch. Another pair of lights spins round like a lighthouse, spinning, screeching as it comes to a halt next to a set of traffic lights.  
Gaël’s hands fly to his face, shaking against his lips.  
He doesn’t scream, doesn’t say anything except a quiet ‘Uh-O-Uh’ of his breath.  
“You never asked me what I did. I assumed you knew, just never said.” The figure murmurs, they haven’t moved, haven’t jumped at all Instead they just silently survey the scene. Somewhere in the background music is playing from a broken radio.  
Gaël’s fingers come away from his mouth slowly, he manages to tear his eyes away from the two cars and the broken glass.  
“You’re death.” He whispers.

~~

“It’s you.” Gaël’s smile is weak. “You’re here…”  
The figure looks surprised to be there, mouth hanging open.  
“No, no. This isn’t right.”  
“’Course it is…” Gaël’s lips turn up again. One eye is ringed in purple, nearly sealed shut. There are scars on his wrists and packets all around him. “This is…” He laughs and it’s breathy, bringing the bottle to his lips.  
“No.” The figure shakes their head. “No. This isn’t how you die. You can’t die here Gaël.”  
“Why not.” Gaël’s smile fails. “Why not. I want to, this is what I want to do. Please… Take me. Please…” His face scrunches up in pain, tears flowing over the tracks they left before. “Why won’t you just take me?”  
“Everyone has a time and a place. I don’t get to choose that.”  
“But I do!” The bottle slips from his fingers and Gaël reaches up to tug on the material of the cape that swishes around them. “This is how I die. It is because I chose it…”  
“This is how you die.” The figure had a piece of paper between their slim fingers. “I can tell you this much, you have so much to live for Gaël, so much to do. It’ll be worth it.”  
When Gaël looks up his eyes are pleading and hopeless.  
“No… It won’t.”  
“I’m not here for you.” Gaël stares at him a moment longer, mouth hanging open in a noiseless sob. Then he buries his face in his hands, shoulders wracking with the failed attempt. The figure stands a moment longer, watches hopelessly before they leave the house for next door.  
There’s still bile in Gaël’s throat when he heaves himself up and drags himself to the end table. The paper is still folded, more like parchment in the way it crackles. The words blur in front of him but he can just read his name in swirling script across it.  
He unfolds the note, and reads.


	2. How to be Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jori is short, with hair almost down to his waist that’s somewhere between strawberry blonde and mousey. His eyes are green and challenging, his lips break apart in crooked smiles and words tinted with an Irish brogue that comes out so much more when he’s angry.  
> As it turns out he can also floor Gaël.  
> Jori has a hand on his chest, and he’s grinning widely.  
> Gaël’s not sure if he’s indignant about being floored by someone a head shorter than him, who wears ridiculous floral jeans or whether he’s a little bit in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jori = Jehan

Jori is short, with hair almost down to his waist that’s somewhere between strawberry blonde and mousey. His eyes are green and challenging, his lips break apart in crooked smiles and words tinted with an Irish brogue that comes out so much more when he’s angry.  
As it turns out he can also floor Gaël.  
Jori has a hand on his chest, and he’s grinning widely.  
Gaël’s not sure if he’s indignant about being floored by someone a head shorter than him, who wears ridiculous floral jeans or whether he’s a little bit in love.  
Jori leans his elbows on Gaël’s breast bone, resting his chin on his hands.  
“I told you.”  
“I’m sorry, next time I’ll believe the 5’5’’ guy who tells me he can floor me.” Jori laughs, Gaël can feel it vibrate in his chest. He gives Jori a little shove and the poet rolls off, lying next to him on the mat. “You want to fence again?”  
“What, so I can beat you. Again?” Jori grins, then blows a stray lock of hair off of his face where it’s falling out of its bun.  
“You know I’m better at fencing than you.” 

They’d met fencing, faceless as they exchanged jabs. Gaël flopped down on the bench after the second draw, hair sticking to his forehead as he watched the next pair take to the floor. He pushed his hair back, letting out a loud rush of air.  
‘You look like you could do with this.’ The voice says, it’s soft, silvery. It belongs to a man, quite short and slim with mousey hair held back in a low bun.  
‘Uh… Thanks.’ He’s a little confused by the sudden offer, and the man it’s coming from. He recognises him yes, but he’s unsure of who he actually is.  
‘We were just…’ The man gestures to the new pair. Then he pauses, sits down and holds out his hand. ‘I’m Jordian, but only my parents call me that. Call me Jori.’ 

“Oh yeah?” Jori raises an eyebrow.  
“I seem to recall that our matches stand to me.” Gaël grins, leaning up on one elbow.  
“On a technicality. Now come on.”

~~~

Jori is one of those people you feel like you’ve known forever, Gaël had felt it the moment they met, and he still feels it now. He feels like they’ve known each other before, somehow, like an old childhood friend you’ve found again in the most un-expected place.  
Gaël dreams.  
He dreams of a room, dark with wood, air thick with tobacco smoke and the waxy feel of the candles and oil lamps that light its many tables. They somehow light every corner in a yellowy, flickering hue, and yet he can’t see any of the men around him. Their voices drift to him, through the haze and he sees them in shadows, blocks of muted colours, with no faces. There no detail to them, they may as well be ghosts, and yet they seem so real he’s surprised to wake up.  
As he continues the scene, from where he’s sitting, clutching on to a bottle of wine, and just watching the not-there-figures. He hears himself chime in to their un-heard, jumbled talks. His bottle lifts and falls and yet he doesn’t feel to have moved it at all. Another voice reaches him, it’s clear cut this time, and because of that it’s familiar.  
“Let’s not insult the gods.” The voice laughs. “The gods have perhaps not left us.”  
He awakes feeling hung-over, but he doesn’t remember drinking. His body feels heavy, mind swimming with… He’s not quite sure what. Perhaps de-ja-vu, like he’s lived a memory he has no recollection of. 

Jori’s studying literature in University, and it’s when he’s on the Gothic module that the subject of death first comes up.  
“Hey, Gaël, what do you think death looks like?” He’s been trying to write the poem all day, but mainly he’s just been watching over Gaël’s shoulder as he paints.  
“They’re not a skeleton, but they do wear a cloak – because they get cold – and they are pretty skinny, with these really spindly fingers.” He ponders a moment, tapping his paintbrush against his bottom lip. “They don’t have a face, well they do, but you can’t tell what they look like. They’re everyone at once, and so they’re nobody in particular. It’s like an ever-changing flickering, from feature to feature. There are features, very clearly with the mouth and eyes but you can’t tell what they look like somehow.”  
“That’s… Kind of beautiful. Wow…” Jori’s brow furrows, and he chews on the end of his pen. “I’m not jealous at all of your artist’s mind…” Gaël laughs softly, because he almost wants to tell him he’s not making it up, and that really is what they look like, but that would ruin the fun somehow.  
Jori leans his chin on Gaël’s shoulder, eyes glancing over the work. It’s a muted scene, with vague outlines of tables and people in greys and browns. There’s a hint more blue here, a bit of green or purple. There’s one flash of red, just off of centre that commands the eyes.  
“Where are you painting?”  
“Not sure really, just a scene…” Gaël adds a dab of green to the not-quite figure at the end of the bar.  
“Are you referencing? I just feel like I kind of recognise it.”  
“Not knowingly, just got the idea in my head…”  
“Hmmm…” Jori reaches out to not-quite skim his fingers over the figures in the work, as if they might hold answers for un-heard questions.

The subject of death comes up often with Jori, on long walks or shared meals and sitting on bridges late at night.  
“Do you ever wonder,” Jori begins, glancing down at his feet as they swing over the Seine. “How you might die?”  
Gaël blinks, turning his gaze away from his friend and back to the Pont Au Change. There’s a silence between them, broken only by the rushing of water below them and the traffic of Paris at night.  
“I already know.” He says eventually. “Or where at least.” His finger grip around the wallet in his pocket, around the crumpled piece of paper that’s hidden between his out of date licence and his library card. “I’m going to die in my best friends arms.”  
Jori looks back up at him, and exhales, somewhere between a laugh and a shake.  
“Then you need to find a new best friend. Because I’m not going to let that happen. I can promise you that.” His voice is so certain, so strong that Gaël can’t help but smile.  
“I’ll try my best.” He looks round to meet Jori’s eyes. Then they’re both laughing softly, fingers twining together and squeezing as they look out across Paris. 

~~~

The pre-occupation is explained a year into their friendship, when Gaël is woken after midnight by a hiccupping phone call.  
“Jori?”  
“I-I’m sorry I shouldn’t have woken you I just needed…” He breaks off in a juddering sob.  
“Where are you?”  
“A-At the hospital…”  
Gaël can’t run in the corridors, but he can power walk, continually verging on a sprit as he turns corners, trying to find the room. Jori stands up rapidly at his approaching footsteps. His hair is a mess, his eyes red and puffy from the tears streaking his cheeks.  
“You’re okay…” Gaël breathes, and Jori bursts into tears again with a shuddering of his lips, collapsing forward into his arms.  
“It’s Mum…”  
Gaël’s never met Jori’s mother, he hadn’t really thought about it. Jori’s never met his parents because they’re not the sort you go around introducing people to. So the idea never occurred to him.  
Jori’s mother is pale and sickly. There’s grey in her lips and the hollows of her cheek and under her nails and Jori clutches at her fingers desperately. Gaël feels completely useless, all he can do is sit there and watch, gently rub his back as his sobs go silent.  
He glances up at the swishing of a cape, the figure stands silently on the other side of the bed, one hand slightly raised toward the lady on the bed.  
“Don’t…” Gaël murmurs, and it’s pleading and tearful.  
“You know I don’t have a choice.”


	3. All of My Doubt Suddenly Goes Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jori, almost literally, swings by the next morning, careering round the edge of his worktop like a slightly excitable puppy. Once Gaël gets him to settle with a cup of tea – black, because the milk is questionable at best – they talk, and they don’t really stop. They do that a lot now.   
> “Come on Gaël, you’re my best friend. You know I love you.”  
> “Still, you’ve gone off and gone head over heels for some guy you met in a coffee shop. In, what I might add, is the most rom-com way possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First letter corresponds :D  
> Except Alain who is L'Aigle  
> Clark is Courfeyrac and Célestin is Combeferre

Gaël isn’t sure quite how long he’s been sitting in the damp towel, his hair dripping trails of water down his nose and off his chin. Logically he knows he should dry it, because he’s getting cold and is going to start shivering in a moment. He also knows that, because he’s thirsty, he should finish his drink, which is only centimetres away from him.   
Moving doesn’t seem like a particularly monumental feat, not something that would be hard to do, and yet somehow he just can’t seem to summon up the will power to do it.  
He really needs to be allowed to take painkillers more than every four hours. There’s a faint ache creeping back into his throat and into his ears and down to his stomach. He thinks maybe it’s the root of all his issues tonight, but to be honest these things never seem to have a basis in anything, not really.  
He thinks, briefly at first before it starts worming its way into his thoughts until he has a physical need, a craving, that maybe he should call Jori. Not to talk about this, but just to hear a voice. But it’s past midnight, and he doesn’t like bothering people with these petty problems at the best of times.   
So he sits, and drips, until moving at least seems vaguely bearable.

~~~

Jori, almost literally, swings by the next morning, careering round the edge of his worktop like a slightly excitable puppy. Once Gaël gets him to settle with a cup of tea – black, because the milk is questionable at best – they talk, and they don’t really stop. They do that a lot now.   
“Come on Gaël, you’re my best friend. You know I love you.”  
“Still, you’ve gone off and gone head over heels for some guy you met in a coffee shop. In, what I might add, is the most rom-com way possible.”   
Jori met the guy, Clark, yesterday, with the rain pouring outside and the coffee shop too packed to really move. There had been a stumble, a miss-timed turn, and lots of luckily not too hot coffee ending up all over the pair of them. Long story short, Jori had said, the guy offered up a second coffee and a table for two where they chatted for as long as opening hours would allow.   
“You’re ridiculous.”  
“I am not! I can’t explain it, just like I can’t explain why it felt like we’d met even though we hadn’t. It feels like we were meant to meet each other somehow.”  
“Soul mates.” Gaël raises an eyebrow. “Doomed to seek each other out through centuries, reincarnation upon reincarnation until they finally get their act together and just do it already.”  
“And it was going so well…”  
“I try my best.” Gaël grins, sipping his coffee.  
“You always say you’re not a romantic but you know I don’t always believe you. I think secretly, deep down, you believe in all that fluffy stuff.”  
“What, that souls are bound to each other across time? That they’ll be reincarnated? I’m not so sure.”  
He is though, he gave up on the idea of a soul mate long ago. Maybe there is some destiny in who you meet, but it certainly doesn’t come from twisted fate or red strings that bind you together.   
“Say you’ll come meet him at least?”   
“I’m your best friend, isn’t it kind of my duty to give him the once over, say I hate him when really I can find nothing wrong and then give him my blessing?”

~~~

Infuriatingly Gaël can’t find a single thing wrong with wrong with Clark, and he’s tried pretty hard to find at least one thing to complain about. Sure he’s a little bit bouncy, but it’s almost infectious how passionate and excited about the things he talks about. Maybe he’s a little loud, but he listens so closely that you can’t complain.   
He has near black eyes that still manage to be warm, and dark wavy hair to match. His smile is crooked, and always widens when he looks across to Jori. His entire person seems so genuine Gaël honestly can’t complain, he can only get swept away with the pair of them.  
Clark probably makes friends with everyone, but he makes you feel special nonetheless, leaning in close on his hand with a wide grin, eyes following you closely. He asks just enough questions to be attentive without seeming too full on or like he’s trying too hard to please you.   
“So..?” Jori asks as they walk back to Gaël’s apartment. “Did you like him at all?”  
“No, not an ounce. Not one little bit.” Gaël shakes his head in mock disproval. “What kind of thing do you pick up in these café’s?”   
Jori shoots him a glare.  
“Don’t be so rude.” He slaps his chest with the back of his hand. “He’s lovely.”   
“No he is, you seem pretty good for each other I have to admit…” He can’t hide his smile anymore. “I think he’s delightful.”  
“And I think you’re an arsehole.”   
“No you don’t, even if you do you’re not giving me up.” Jori rolls his eyes, moving to cross the road. Gaël spots a figure, shadowy in someone’s garden, by a bright red front door that just highlights them even more. He grabs Jori’s arm, pulling him back slightly more sharply than intended.   
“Hey, it’s green!” Jori stumbles back into him. “You’re pale, are you okay?”   
“I-“ The figure glances up, pausing a moment to watch him. Then, almost imperceptibly they shake their head, moving as if to knock on the door. Instead they fade into the red, the door knocker showing through, then the number. “I’m sorry I just thought… No never mind, let’s go.”

He paints when he gets in, a sudden burst of inspiration, or perhaps adrenaline, for the painting he’s been working on. He’s been stuck for weeks, maybe even longer on the piece. It’s dark currently, the shapes of a room showing through brown paints and shapes. There are figures, gradually appearing. In the corner, in green and white is a man clutching a bottle, and he thinks he’s seen him in a dream, years ago. To the side, leaning on the table is a man with long hair, in mismatched colours that he’s not sure of the inspiration of. But now he adds another, nearby, in an aqua type colour, paper raised into the air like he’s making a point, he’s not sure who to yet but he’s energetic and fiery.   
‘The law is only law when entire. No! No charter!’ He finds himself mumbling, adding words to the scene. He’s not quite sure where they come from, but they seem to fit, and he imagines the papers being thrown into the nearby fire as he paints it, dissolving into the flames as the man looks on in satisfaction. There’s something missing, the person he’s actually talking to alludes him to his frustration and he puts down his brush with a sigh.   
His phone buzzes next to him, and he stretches across to get it. Jori’s picture flashes up on the screen, above a text.   
‘Clark called, he asked if I wanted to meet his friends at some group meeting. Want to give me some back up. Tomorrow at 8, I’ll buy drinks Xx’   
He’s not especially in the mood, but actually getting out of the house will do him good if he’s honest and Jehan needs some moral support in the face of however many friends Clark has (he’s pretty sure the answer is many).   
‘Alright, but nothing crap. I expect the best for the sacrifice I’m making.’

The answer to his assumption on how many friends Clark has turns out to be mostly correct. The trio, as Clark leads them back to a small backroom, are met by what looks like nearly 10 people.   
“You said a group and you actually meant it…” Jori remarks.   
“It’s not too big, and they’re all friendly trust me.” He slings an arm around his… Boyfriend, is that the right word yet? “Alright, you have… Célestin over there, the one with the glasses. Chatting to him are Feival and Blaise. Blaise is the one who looks like he could floor you but he’s a massive softy. Marin is the gangly one talking to Josse, and finally Alain is the one with his arm around him. Célestin!” He calls across the room, and the man glances up from his conversation. “Where’s Émilen?”   
“He had a works thing. So this is the new boyfriend huh?”   
“Yup, this is Jori.” Jori steps forward to shake his hand, then realises he’s now the centre of attention and retreats a little. “And his friend Gaël.” He raises a hand in hello.   
“You look familiar.” Alain leans over the back of his chair. “Do I know you?”   
“I frequent the pubs if that helps?”  
“It might well do…” The other man nods, seemingly satisfied with the explanation though doubt niggles Gaël, that same feeling he had when he met Jori washes over him. “Come and sit, we need to get to know you two!”  
“We are supposed to be having a meeting.” Célestin points out.   
“Yes, but you aren’t innocent in disrupting a meeting now are you?” Blaise points out with a not too innocent grin. “You can let us have one night off planning a riot to get to know Clark’s new beau right?” Célestin raises an eyebrow, but turns his attention to the new pair settled at the edge of the table. Gaël wants to paint, his hands are itching to, he’s not sure why but there’s a surge of inspiration for the painting abandoned at home.   
Jori gets the third degree, as expected. Clark too, but then attention turns to him. What does he do, did he do uni, what did he study, how do he and Jori know each other the list goes on. But talking is surprisingly easy, everyone is open and chats along. Clark explains what they do here and gets both of them to agree to help – Gaël’s not sure how on his part.   
By the end of it he’s not sure if he’s having a drinking competition with Josse or discussing the benefits if red wine but there’s alcohol involved, and Blaise has slung an arm over his shoulder.   
“They’re all mad.” He murmurs conspiratorially to Jori who chuckles, leaning back into Clark.   
“Then we’ll fit right in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're kind of back people! Getting there, I've written the end? :D


	4. Watching You Stand Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s persuaded (it doesn’t take much) to return to the meeting on Friday. Alain claps him on the back as he arrives and pulls him over to where he, Josse and Blaise are discussing a night of drinking in depth. They have a map in front of them, and Josse and Blaise are pointing to nearly opposite sides. So he steps in, advises them that both their bars are crap choices, ducks away from flailing hands and then points out a much better starting point. The discussion continues for quite a while, at least until Émilen arrives and puts a stop to the various discussions going on around the room.   
>  Gaël look round to the new man. He’s tall, relatively slender with a shock of golden hair and blue eyes that are trained on their group.   
> He would know him anywhere.   
> There’s a stab of pain, literal pain in his chest and he feels the blood drain from his face as he turns back to the map. It’s enough for Josse to ask quietly if he’s okay. He nods, says something about getting some air, and leaves without looking back up at the blonde man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of being shot

His painting is coming along well, he dreams vividly of the figures, though they remain faceless. He’s tried to add their features to the painting, but every face he draws seems completely misplaced on the bodies.   
There’s a man talking to him in the dream now, dressed in burnt orange and laughing. He might not be talking directly to him actually, there’s a speech going on in the background but there’s a booming ‘Silence then, capital R!’ His continues his speech, but Gaël has long since started paying attention to the table next to him. The two men are deep in conversation, one in brown and the other in a deep burgundy bent over a table and papers. Their conversation doesn’t seem to tally with their serious look.  
‘She is a superb girl, very literary, with tiny feet, little hands, she dresses well, and is white and dimpled, with the eyes of a fortune-teller. I am wild over her.’ The one in brown sighs, love sick perhaps.  
‘My dear fellow, then in order to please her, you must be elegant, and produce effects with your knees. Buy a good pair of trousers of double-milled cloth at Staub's. That will assist.’   
He hears himself join the conversation, but his words are lost.   
In another dream the fiery passion of the man in teal finds his counterpart in blue, sitting looking rather bored and uninterested in his own argument but perks up as the man brandishes his paper and throws it into the flames.   
His dream last night had held two main figures. He’s pretty sure it’s the man in blue again, joined by another in grey in the middle of an impassioned speech, though he gets the feeling the subject is not well met. It’s like joining the party half way through, where he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on or how he gets there, but he can get an idea.   
‘To conquer the world twice, by conquest and by dazzling, that is sublime; and what greater thing is there?’ The man in grey is saying. The other man looks at him, stares even, then all that comes is an icy:   
‘To be free.’   
He wakes up with a tune in his head, he has no idea where it’s come from but it’s an old style, more a military song than anything. He hums in as he paints now, touching up a figure. Jori sits behind him, writing a poem for Clark to give to him on Friday. They seem to be getting along well, Jori smiles more than he has done since his mother died. He chats, and writes out his feelings in romantic poetry rather than the gothic Gaël’s used to.   
“He’s taking me for a date tonight.” Jori grins suddenly, leaning his head over the arm of the sofa.   
“Yeah? Where abouts?”  
“Dinner, then a walk along the river.”  
“Very romantic.” Gaël grins. “Perfect for you.”   
“He’s just the sweetest guy, I feel so lucky that I met him even if I did get coffee chucked all over me to do it.”  
“You’re living a rom-com. Just keep an eye out because something’s bound to happen.”

He’s persuaded (it doesn’t take much) to return to the meeting on Friday. Alain claps him on the back as he arrives and pulls him over to where he, Josse and Blaise are discussing a night of drinking in depth. They have a map in front of them, and Josse and Blaise are pointing to nearly opposite sides. So he steps in, advises them that both their bars are crap choices, ducks away from flailing hands and then points out a much better starting point. The discussion continues for quite a while, at least until Émilen arrives and puts a stop to the various discussions going on around the room.   
Gaël look round to the new man. He’s tall, relatively slender with a shock of golden hair and blue eyes that are trained on their group.   
He would know him anywhere.   
There’s a stab of pain, literal pain in his chest and he feels the blood drain from his face as he turns back to the map. It’s enough for Josse to ask quietly if he’s okay. He nods, says something about getting some air, and leaves without looking back up at the blonde man.  
He staggers into the bathroom, shutting the cubicle door behind him and sinks down. The pain is still in his chest, like a flare burning, boring. He rubs at it, burying his face in one hand.   
‘I’d know him anywhere.’ That was the first thing he’d thought, but it couldn’t be true. He knew it couldn’t. Despite all the recognition, all the sudden recollection, he hadn’t actually ever seen the man in the other room. Not even in a bar, and yet…   
He knows him, he knows he does. More than he’d felt with Blaise or Clark or even Jori. He knows this man’s soul somehow, without even having seen him.   
Perhaps it’s love, a sudden rush of feelings like Jori had said. Love at first sight.   
He actually does need some air now, everything tightening in his chest, like tentacles radiating from the point of pain. He pushes himself back up, staggers into the wall. His text to Jori is shaky, an apology, but there’s nothing to worry about he’ll be there for the bar crawl.   
But when he pushes open the bathroom door Jori is stood right outside, making him jump backwards.   
“Jesus Christ!” His shoulder knocks against the wall and he pulls a face, rubbing at it.  
“Sorry, I just wanted to check you were okay… You kind of just ran out, freaked the hell out of everyone.”  
“I just came over funny, but it was nothing. Just needed some air.”   
“And you’re better..?” Jori asks, reaching up to lay a hand on Gaël’s forehead.   
“I think so… It was just a cramp perhaps…” The ache in his chest his subsided a little in the past few minutes, a dull ache gradually concentrating back to its centre below his left collar bone.   
“Are you up for coming back in? Émilen said he’d wait for you if you were up for returning. I warned him that probably wasn’t a good idea.” He smiles, and Gaël chuckles.  
“I can’t disappoint then can I? Come on, rather than keep them waiting.”  
“Your turn to be the centre of attention for once.” Jori grins, dragging him away. “Take some of the heat off me.”   
They re-enter the room, everyone in it has shifted slightly to form a better group. They’re chattering about a rally they’re planning, at least that’s the gist he gets before they all fall silent and turn toward the door.   
“Gaël!” Blaise booms. “We though the alcohol had already got too much for you.”   
“Never fear, now come on don’t hold up the meeting on my account.”   
“We weren’t.” Émilen glances up from his work. “Not fully. Gaël right?” He holds out a hand, and as Gaël takes it the sharp feeling in his chest comes back, like he’s been hit, and he swallows hard against the pain.   
“I- Sorry for disrupting but I can assure you it won’t be the last time.”   
“I’m pretty sure that’s not something you’re supposed to admit.” Émilen tells him, raising an eyebrow.   
“You’ll soon learn that that’s just a warning.” He grins. 

His dream that night is vivid, all the characters return with a new light. The faces have more features even if he can’t quite place them. But in the centre of it all is a man in red, a figure of scarlet and gold. The scenes shift in a fast forward, through what could be any number of weeks. Then suddenly there’s darkness, there’s muffled shouting in the background but he can see nothing and then there’s silence. Slowly he opens his eyes, in his dream, to see a room of guards, darkened. He pushes himself up, stumbles a little but then he’s moving forward with confident ease. Surging toward the guards.   
‘Long live the Republic! I am one of them!’ He shouts, pushing his way through to an unknown target. “Long live the Republic!”   
And then he sees him, the man in scarlet. Unlike the others his features are defined, and he finds himself staring into the face of Émilen. He’s not quite the Émilen he knows, but somehow it’s him. He wants to stop dead, but he can’t. He keeps moving toward the familiar face.   
‘Finish us both with one blow.’ He says, to the guards though his eyes never leave the other man’s face. He doesn’t quite reach his eyes, blue and searching his own face. ‘Do you permit it?’  
There’s a press of his hand, then several loud gunshots in the background. Gaël didn’t think you were supposed to be able to feel pain in dreams, but there’s a boring pain in his chest working its way further in and then he falls to the ground.  
He jerks awake only then, his chest hurting, mind fuzzy. 

~~~

It’s driving him mad.   
He’s been to meeting after meeting, each time with an aching chest, and each time he tries to explain the connection, the knowing feeling he has when he sees Émilen.   
On the bar crawl Émilen approaches him, asks him quite why he had to be so argumentative.   
“Because every group needs one annoying arsehole.” He tells him, with a wide grin. Drunk the pain in his chest is dulled, but when Émilen reaches out to steady him it flashes back briefly, and he staggers against his chest.   
“I think you’ve had a bit much.” Émilen chuckles.   
“Huh…” Gaël’s own laugh is breathless. “Honestly I’m fine I just lost my balance. Do you want a drink? We can chat if you’d like.”   
“No arguments?”  
“I’ll try. But no guarantees.”   
They sit down at a table for a few minutes, Émilen sipping a G&T. They barely talk before there’s a call to move on. So they down the last dregs and chat as they walk. It’s better out here, Gaël can’t see Émilen properly and it somehow helps not to look at him directly, like he’s the sun. He thinks Émilen’s trying to avoid an argument, talking about mundane topics. But it’s nice, it feels a little like this is unusual.   
“What did you study?” Émilen asks.  
“Oh uh… Art and History.”  
“Oh I always loved history. I stuck to politics though for my actual degree.”   
“What parts of history?” Gaël asks with a smile. He can talk for hours if he’s given the chance, which Feival has on more than one occasion.   
“Uh, the French Revolution, I did that in school. And the Republics after. I think it’s fascinating how the country couldn’t quite make its mind up on what it wanted. There are so many revolts and revolutions. Everyone thinks of the big one, but not the minor and well I guess not so minor ones that happened after. Do you know about 1832?”  
“Which one was that?”   
“It was really small, I’m not surprised you haven’t heard about it.” He looks embarrassed. “It was workers and students, they revolted at the funeral of Lamarque. It wasn’t successful, but any means but it led to other things. That’s important in its own right.”   
“They were killed..?” Gaël asks, pausing.   
“A great many.”   
There’s a flash, gunshots, searing pain. He stops dead, and after a moment Émilen glances round. Gaël blinks at him, and he can see blood, dripping distinctly from 8 points on his body and his hand comes to his mouth.   
“Gaël? Are you okay?”   
“I-“  
“Do you want Josse?” Émilen asks, moving forward.   
“No! No I’ll be fine. Let’s get inside.” He pushes his way past Émilen, past the blood he’s so certain he can see even if he knows it’s not there. He heads straight for the bar, orders a shot, then two. His hand runs over his face, but it doesn’t feel like his own. Another drink burns his throat.   
Émilen catches up with him, touching his shoulder.   
“Gaël? What happened? Did I say something?”   
“No, no nothing about you. I just need a drink…” He holds his glass in one hand.   
“Do you?”   
“Yes I bloody do! Don’t start on me.”   
“Why don’t you just talk to me?!”   
“I can’t Émilen! I just… C-Can’t. Because every time I look at you I just see… There’s these guards and I’m staggering toward you and I know this is something I can do… And then I can feel your hand in mine and I’m happy for a moment. Then I feel a bullet, it worms it’s way in-between my ribs and suddenly I can’t breathe, and there’s blood in my mouth. Then comes the second and it’s less than a second after the first but it feels like an eternity, and it goes through my shoulder and suddenly my hand slips from yours as my arm becomes useless and then the final shot comes. It shatters me, digs it’s way in.” His hand knuckles against his heart. “And then it reaches my heart and I feel it give one last beat, and it tries. Oh God… My heart which was long since blackened and wished for this moment when it comes tries to keep beating, keep me alive and as I fall I can see you. You’re standing above me, like you’ve not moved and there’s seven bullets, then comes the eight and I don’t remember anymore… But that image of you… The first bullet’s here.” He reaches out to Émilen’s shoulder, where he can see the dripping and he knows this is how his dream ended, how it all ended. “It shattered the wood behind you. Then the second, against ribs and I think that one must hurt so much… The third to your stomach, the fourth to your arm and then your arm fell too. The fifth hit your collar bone and it was the only noise you made… The sixth hit just below your breast bone, it was a poor shot. The seventh, I think, killed you. It hit here.” His hand is flat on Émilen’s chest, and he swallows dryly. “Your head fell down. The last went through your leg, just above my head. You didn’t even move…” He steps back again, refusing to look up. “Every time I can feel it. I can feel bones and my blood and my heart… That’s why… I can’t look at you and I can’t- But I want to.” Émilen reaches to take his hand, but Gaël flinches back again.   
“Come on, you’ve had too much. This is just… A dream you had, something you saw.”   
“No, no it’s not.” He doesn’t know where all this is coming from but he can’t stop. “It sounds so stupid.”  
“You’ve just… Got a good imagination.” Gaël shakes his head, watching Émilen’s face because that still looks normal. He looks concerned, in a genuine manner like he’s considering what to do next. Gaël’s pretty sure he just thinks he’s having some kind of nervous break.   
“You know I’m… I’m fine. I just need some sleep, to go home. I can do that.” He finishes his drink. “I’m honestly fine.” He tells Émilen as the other steps toward him slightly. “Go find the others.” Émilen protests, but it’s in the background, he’s already out of the door.

He doesn’t go home, he walks toward the hospital, and stands staring at the building for half an hour or so.   
“What are you waiting for?” Someone asks next to him, he turns his head slightly to see the figure with its ever flickering face.  
“You.” He tells them, returning his gaze to the hospital. “I need to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there wasn't a Complications update this week, I was at home and had no internet on Sunday and I didn't want to update on a different day :L This week I promise!


	5. Darling Don't Be Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do have a job you know, I’m not just here to talk to you.” The figure tells him, watching the building.  
> “I don’t care.” He says flatly. “You’re the only one I can talk to about this.” There’s what might be a sigh, but it’s so faded he can barely hear.  
> “You’re talking to yourself, let’s go somewhere.” They lead him back to his apartment, and Gaël trails after him, aimlessly.  
> “What happened?”

“I do have a job you know, I’m not just here to talk to you.” The figure tells him, watching the building.  
“I don’t care.” He says flatly. “You’re the only one I can talk to about this.” There’s what might be a sigh, but it’s so faded he can barely hear.  
“You’re talking to yourself, let’s go somewhere.” They lead him back to his apartment, and Gaël trails after him, aimlessly. It’s a wordless journey, not because Gaël doesn’t want to appear mad randomly talking to what others perceive as thin air – he’s done enough mad talking today for a little extra not to matter – but because he simply doesn’t know what he would say if he could open his mouth. He’s stunned into some kind of silence, and it makes him wonder if the figure’s actually done something to him to keep him from speaking up, then he realises that isn’t really their style and that they likely have no control over the living.  
“What happened?” They ask as they reach the door and Gaël unlocks it after 3 failed, shaking attempts. They ask it as he steps inside, before they’ve even moved inside the small flat.  
Gaël pauses, standing in his lounge and staring around at everything that can usually ground him. It doesn’t work, because he’s not sure what’s real anymore and what’s not.  
“I knew them.” He says eventually. “I-I knew them, in the past. I don’t know how I could- But I just know. Why do I remember them?!” He turns to face them, grabbing a bottle he had been drinking from with Jori earlier from the counter, his free hand coming up and pushing forcibly though his hair, tugging at the roots. “Why do I remember when none of them can?! It’s been there for weeks, I knew there was something and it was driving me mad that I didn’t know what it was but now… Now I do! And it’s so much worse. Because I can actually feel it all… Why can I feel it?” He sinks down on the sofa, swigging back a mouthful of whatever’s in this bottle. It burns nicely, a complement to the aching in his chest, working its way up to his head. “It hurts…”  
There’s resonant silence, and for a moment he thinks they might have left. But when he looks up heavy headed, they’re still standing in front of the doorway. It’s nearly lurking, not quite in the room not quite out, watching him closely with shifting eyes. It’s weird what your brain focuses on as it panics, but for a brief moment he wonders if they need to be invited in, or whether they can even close the door. Then they make a tiny movement forward into the room, it can’t be called a step because the floor doesn’t do its usual squeak, and the door swings shut behind them. It brings him back to the situation, what they’re here for.  
“Why. Tell me why.” He demands them, and they turn their head to one side, their hood shifts over their shoulder.  
“Do you believe in reincarnation? That souls traverse time?” They ask, and he laughs bitterly.  
“Answer my damn question. And straight, not through questions. You owe me that.” Another exhale, though it’s more of a raise of the shoulders than a breath.  
“Each soul, or what humans would think of as a soul, is reborn once its previous body dies. Over and over, from one life to the next. That’s why I would not refer to myself as death, rather I guide souls from their previous body to the next.”  
“And why can I remember?”  
“Because you can see me.” They tell him, and he shakes his head.  
“Of course it is.”  
“It doesn’t usually happen. Not like this. If souls meet again people might have an inkling, but they never remember.”  
“Have I ever been able to see you before?”  
“No.” They say simply.  
“So you mean I might never see you again? After this life?” He swigs from the bottle again.  
“Not personally.” He holds back a snide remark, rubbing his face with his hand.  
“I died, with him… Didn’t I?”  
“That’s why you remember him so vividly. Two souls that leave the world together leave marks. Even if he doesn’t know it, he can feel it I’m sure.”  
“No he can’t. He thinks I’m mad, I saw it all and I blurted it out to him. He already thought I was an arsehole, now…” He sighs, leaning on one hand. “Tell me what happened, with all of us.”  
“You were a group of students, and you were planning, fighting. I knew what would happen, I’d seen one of your group at the death of his father, a moment too late if I recall. I watched the group, there was a lot of death in Paris that year, and it gave me some respite. You were ever the cynic, drinking in the back of the room, disruptive.”  
“Why was I there?”  
“You loved him. You had lost all ability to have faith in anything, but there was something about him that made you want to follow.”  
“I… I believe in you.” He remembers, though he doesn’t know where from. “I told him and he didn’t believe me. I told him… You’ll see…” He frowns. “But he thought I was incapable of anything…”  
“You drank, and slept through the day. I was kept busy, they were felled one by one. Jehan, he was called, was captured but he stood up and shouted his slogan and was shot for it. He was the first, then the others, even those helping were shot. Only… What was his name?” There’s something like a frown.  
“Émilen?” He tries.  
“He was Enjolras then, I believe. He was one of the last, the guards had him surrounded but you woke up at the silence. I had hoped that at least you would survive, but as you staggered forward I knew you wouldn’t. You died holding hands.”  
“I died for him… But every time I look at him I see that. There were 8 shots, and I see each one. I feel the two that hit me.” The cloak swishes as they move toward him, he’s getting more worked up. It comes out of nowhere, a surge of anger at the pain, the memories. “Take it away. Take it all away!” The bottle’s left his hand somewhere along the line, and it smashes on the wall behind the figure, sending the last dregs running down the wall.  
“I can’t.”  
“You said that before. Not this time! I can see you, so you can make me stop seeing you. Make me forget! Or I swear to God I’ll call Jori right now and-“ He breaks off, breathing hard, his now empty hands tangle, bury themselves in his hair, and he thinks he tries to cry but nothing comes out. They step closer again, cautious even though he can’t actually do any harm to them.  
“I can’t because I don’t know why you can see me. You’re not supposed to, not until the end.”  
“So I have to live with it, knowing all that when no-one else does, or even can…”  
“You have to. Go back to them.” Gaël shakes his head, tearful now the anger’s wearing off. “You’re there for a reason.”  
“Then you have to tell me everything, did I know Enjolras after that? Any of them? Ever?”  
“Once or twice. In one of your other lives the pair of you lived together, you loved each other. That was during the war, I took him from the Somme. Your next life you never met, the timeline’s never crossed. But you knew Jori, and I believe it was Clark. You and Jori got together. Other than that it goes too far back to remember.”  
“You’re immortal.”  
“I don’t store infinite memories. Your timeline’s likely crossed.”  
“Like Clark and Jori’s have?”  
“Yes. This is the first when they’ve actually been together.”  
“So they were destined?” He asks, trying to find some positive in all this. The figure nods, though they don’t look back to him, instead staring out of the window.  
“I really can’t stay any longer.”  
“Tell me one last thing.” They do look round then, and their eyes shift from blue to black.  
“What is it you wish to know?”  
“What was my name?” He asks, fixing them with a look that might be more longing than intended. He needs a name for his face, for that man who walked to his death for the man he loved.  
“Grantaire. You went by Grantaire.”

Gaël spends the next day in the house, he’s not entirely sure if what he’s feeling is a hangover or not, but his head is fuzzy. He keeps trying to remember, remember anything about the past lives the figure had mentioned. He focuses on when he was Grantaire first, staring at the ceiling, but he finds he keeps coming back to what he already knows, he can’t remember his family, what he might have done, anything. It keeps coming back to the pub, the group of friends and then, inevitably, the guns.  
He has even less luck with the next life in which he knew Émilen, though he’s sure he’d be told that’s because there was no traumatic ending together or some bull shit. Anything he can even drag to the surface comes in through a dull gloom, like he’s staring through cloth. It’s silent, muted browns and vague shapes and only serves to give him an actual headache.  
It’s then, as he’s staring intently into his coffee, that there’s a knock on the door. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to clear the tunnel vision, before he hops off the stool and heads for the door.  
“Hey.” Jori looks up at him, with a slight smile. “Where’d you vanish to last night?”  
Gaël steps aside, sighing quietly. He has no idea how to explain any of this. So instead he opts for the simple offer of coffee. It’s not much, nothing special at all and he’s sure Clark could do better. He boils the kettle again, Jori sitting on his counter quietly, and tries to imagine them having been together in the past. He liked Jori when they first met, though he’s never sure if it was anything other than friends. But he tries to imagine, to see if it can bring him any closer to his past.  
“Are you alright?” Jori asks, leaning back a little. “You seem off.” Gaël hands him the coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Do you actually have a hangover? Oh my god, that is a first.”  
“I don’t, I just didn’t sleep well. I think I came down with a bug.” He sips his own coffee again. “Just a 24 hour thing, all out of my system now.”  
“Sure? Because Émilen was really worried about you. He said you were acting really weird then you upped and left. He did look but… Well he lost you so he came to find us. But you weren’t here-“  
“I took a walk, I had… A migraine coming on, or I thought it was and I needed some air. I just um… Well I was more than a little drunk…” Jori watches him closely. “I was just in a bad place and felt like crap. Honestly, it’s better, everything’s fine.” There were too many excuses in there, none of them true, and Jori sees right through it.  
“You want a fun day together?” Jori offers, with one of his bright smiles. It’s supposed to hide his concern but it doesn’t when you’ve known him so long. It’s in the eyes, they’re slightly too wide and searching. But it helps, Gaël smiles at him and nods.  
“Yeah, that does sound good.”  
It’s like it was in university, they recline on the sofa and flick through shit TV in lieu of doing anything even vaguely productive. Jori quotes at him occasionally, from the book he carries everywhere, writing little notes.  
“I believe I knew you before, somewhere in my past.” Jori begins, then frowns and crosses it out. “It doesn’t work, I don’t know… I need something more.”  
“Is that about Clark?”  
“Yeah, we got all deep and meaningful last night while we thought you were flirting with Émilen.”  
“You always get deep and meaningful when you’ve had a drink or two.” Gaël tells him in amusement, skimming over the other comment. “How did you get onto that?”  
“How should I know? It was just interesting at the time, and the topic came up somehow.”  
“You’re both pretty keen on the made for each other, hey?”  
“Well it’s hard to explain.” Jori defends himself.  
“No, no. It’s nice. It’s great seeing you so into someone. I was just intrigued…” He decides to bite the bullet, because he’s bursting to tell someone, even if he can’t properly. “I mean, do you believe that souls can be reincarnated?”  
Jori ponders it, tapping his pen against his lip.  
“I honestly don’t know. It’s an interesting concept, whether I might’ve existed before. If I was the same, or if I might have been a different person given the circumstance. Have I looked similar, or do lives vary each time, have I perhaps been a different sex. Might I have met you before? Were we friends?”  
“I like to think we were.” Gaël hides a smile, because this helps a little, knowing that they’ve been together before. “If we had met I mean.”  
“You think so?”  
“Of course, I imagine if I ever met you before I’d like to be your friend.” Jori grins, lifting a hand to pat his cheek.  
“Aren’t you sweet, not just stuck with me then?”  
“I don’t think I could ever be stuck with you.”  
“Red strings of fate hey? Destined to meet trying to stab each other with foils and not quite fall in love before we meet our soulmates, live, grow old, die together having been fathers and uncles, students, housemates, best men…” He smiles. “You’re right, there’s no stuck about that.”  
“You think I have a soulmate?” Is all Gaël can say, because he still, even after years of staying alive and fighting, he still can’t believe he’ll make it to have all those things.  
“I don’t know, but I know you like Émilen.”  
“Yeah but he doesn’t like me. That kind of defeats the point of a soulmate.” Jori exhales, pushing himself up out of Gaël’s lap so he can actually sit opposite him, face him with deep green eyes.  
“He does like you, last night he was so worried when you left. I know he’s pretty damn scary but he does have a heart.”  
“Yes and I managed to spend an evening having a lovely conversation with him and then-“ He can’t actually say it, he realises. He can’t tell Jori what he saw, what he knows. How many times they’ve known each other, that they’ve loved each other. And most importantly he can’t tell him about what he sees. Not the figure, not the nagging pain in his chest, and definitely not the eight dripping holes he saw bloom on Émilen last night. “Then I uh…” He struggles to regain his thoughts. “I had a massive panic attack over nothing and babbled… Absolute shit at him. There’s nothing there, and there isn’t ever going to be. I’ve made sure of that.”  
Jori doesn’t argue, he never does when he realises where to stop. He doesn’t tell him he’s being stupid, to just have a little faith, or any of those empty words that follow such negative declarations. A hand is placed over Gaël’s jittering fingers, warm and caring, and Jori’s cheek comes to rest on his shoulder so that Gaël can drop his forehead against the material of Jori’s cardigan, and turn his face into mousey hair that smells of mint. Fingers trail up and down his back reassuringly.  
“You’ll still come to the group?” Jori asks, carding his fingers through dark curls.  
“I think that I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of Complications update again (Though most of those following this don't follow that too :L)  
> Still! Here's the next update, getting there gradually.  
> One of the past lives of Grantaire can be found in Perhaps I Shall See that Still the Skies are Blue :)
> 
> I've posted up some head canons on my Tumblr: http://chatteringbluemagpie.tumblr.com/post/140107737283/numerless-forms-headcanons  
> If you want to know anything else feel free to drop me an ask!


	6. Time Stands Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaël makes it to the next meeting, and the next, stoically avoiding Émilen and drinking far more than he should. It’s easy to slip back into old habits, that numb feeling seeping into his bones and numbing the aching in his chest. He doesn’t look up at the blonde standing at the front, because he simply doesn’t want to see the flashes of red that catch the corner of his eye.   
> The group talks and moves around him as he sits sipping at a bottle, watching vaguely and listening, always listening.

Gaël makes it to the next meeting, and the next, stoically avoiding Émilen and drinking far more than he should. It’s easy to slip back into old habits, that numb feeling seeping into his bones and numbing the aching in his chest. He doesn’t look up at the blonde standing at the front, because he simply doesn’t want to see the flashes of red that catch the corner of his eye.   
The group talks and moves around him as he sits sipping at a bottle, watching vaguely and listening, always listening.   
Mostly he meets people outside the meetings, for that warm sense of familiarity that makes him light up when they come in to view. They’re his new friends, but also his oldest friends even if they don’t know it, and he begins to feel secure.   
He has a reason to leave the house most days. He goes out boxing with Blaise, letting off excess steam and hammering his frustrations into a punch bag. Josse and Alain take him out to their favourite haunts, everything from bars that sell cocktails in teapots to arcades where Gaël lives out parts of his teen years he never got the chance to do the first time around. Feival makes excuses to go to galleries and museums, all the free ones around the city, and though Gaël is sure he knows something more than he’s letting on they walk in companionable silence and sit sketching in the parks.   
That’s what he likes best, the quiet moments where he can distract himself in the quietude. The lack of voices, overlapping, merging into each other and into shouts in his head. The words become meetings, the meetings become the barricade with its yells and curses. He finds himself offering to buy drinks rounds more at meetings, taking more bathroom breaks to get away from the passion, the politics.   
One time, at an unofficial meeting – by which he means they were in a pub and someone brought some article up and then it spiralled and he didn’t prepare for this – he finds himself suddenly short of breath, throat constricting as the room closes in.   
“I’m going for a smoke.” He mumbles, downing another mouthful of his drink.   
Outside he leans against the wall and just breathes. The alley smells stale and sour, but it’s quiet. The sounds of the street muffle and fade until he can block them out and his lungs inflate just a little a better.   
“Hey.” Comes the softly spoken voice, it’s reassuring but he knows it can turn sharp in an instant. He turns his head slightly to the side, eyes soft and unfocussed until he pulls them toward Célestin’s kind face. “Feeling alright?”   
“Mmm…” Gaël sighs, closing his eyes again. “I just needed some air.”   
“You mind someone sharing your… Air?” Célestin sounds like he’s smiling sympathetically and it makes his lips turn up just a little.   
“Free country. It’s not very fresh though I’m afraid.”   
“If you need to talk you can, I mean we’re not that close but… It seems like something is stressing you out.” Gaël snorts.   
“Really?”   
“You don’t like loud places with lots of people talking at once. It makes you anxious.”   
“At this point a lot of things make me anxious.” Gaël exhales quietly, because there’s no point hiding anything from Célestin if he’s noticed that much.   
“You don’t have to punish yourself for that.” Gaël opens his eyes to actually look across to Célestin. His eyes are dark and concerned, searching over his face as his lip is pulled back between his teeth.   
“I just… I wish I knew why.” Gaël tells him quietly, looking down at his feet in their grubby shoes. “I never used to be like this.” Not exactly… Messed up sure, anxious yes, bit of an emotional wreck of course. But never being triggered by noisy rooms, certain topics, not flashbacks and crying on the floor unable to breathe.   
“Something happened?”   
“I guess you could say that.” One hundred and fifty odd years ago, and yet somehow it still feels raw in his mind, like it was just yesterday that he was there.   
“You know you’re allowed to talk about that.”   
“And I would, if I knew what to talk about! What I even could talk about!” Gaël pushes himself away from the wall with his fingers roughly pushing into his hair. It tugs lightly, stinging sensations that bring him back just a little. “I don’t even know how this started and yet- I’m still suffering the consequences of something that wasn’t even me! I didn’t choose any of this!” He’s rambling, skirting, incoherent thoughts that don’t really pull together or, likely, make any sense at all to Célestin but he doesn’t comment. “I don’t know what’s… Me anymore.”  
“You are you. Here, right now. Right now beneath the panic in your chest and the tightness of you limbs and your racing mind and whatever it’s telling you. That’s you. Focus on it, focus on this.”   
Gaël glances up, suddenly lost for words.   
“Breathe with me.” Célestin murmurs, holding out a comforting hand. “Just in and out.” Gaël’s limbs are trembling, his breath shaking in and out of him but he feels his shoulders rise in time with the other man’s. Crisp night air, the smell of traffic, of damp tarmac. He exhales in a stream of negativity. In again, the smell of Saturday morning – stale beer, urine, grease. Out again, expelling as much of the crampy feeling as possible and it makes him cough but Célestin gently touches his shoulder. Breathe in. The smell of laundry powder, shampoo, aftershave, sweat. Breathe out in salty tears over his lips and the beginning of a sob and he’s got his face buried against Célestin’s shoulder, wracking tears because someone understands. Someone knows.   
“You’re here. You’re safe.” Célestin murmurs quietly, and the hand on his back gives him something to focus on, the feel of heat, of rough wool, strands of hair, the soft suede that catches his fingers as he clings tightly to his arm. “I’ve got you.”

He adds Célestin to the list of people he sees every week. They meet for coffee the next morning, Gaël nearly vibrating out of his seat as he waits for Célestin to collect their drinks. He instantly regretted agreeing to do this the moment he woke up, sober and with the exhausted, head-heavy hangover he recognises from one of his episodes. But it’s too late to do anything about it now, Célestin’s making his way back over with one of his smiles and those concerned eyes.   
“Thank you.” Gaël murmurs, cupping his mug in his hands until it burns a little.   
“No problem, I chose the coffee place so it’s only fair it’s my shout.” Célestin shrugs, blowing over the top of his coffee. “And I wanted to talk.” Gaël chuckles nervously.   
“Of course you did.”   
“You don’t have to, if it’s going to make you uncomfortable. I just thought you might want to.”   
“After last night you mean?” Gaël glances up, and Célestin nods. “Go on then what would you say Mr Psychologist?”   
“I’m not a psychologist here, I’m your friend.”   
“But I’m interested to what you think is going on in this head of mine.” Gaël sips his coffee as nonchalantly as possible.   
“Sure?” Célestin sighs, then considers a moment. “Alright, I think you might have PTSD, if you walked in to my office today describing your symptoms that would be my diagnosis. I would… Assume something had happened, some event and that was being triggered.” Gaël ‘hmms’ in what might be agreement, but he’s not sure he wants to commit. “Did you witness a death?”   
“Yeah, you could say that. There was a car crash…” That’s not it, but it’s the easiest explanation to give. Célestin nods, considering it. “Maybe it’s the voices, music… Noises. I don’t know.”   
“That’s okay. That’s why you talk, to figure stuff like that out. And, then, how to help lessen the symptoms.”   
“Like you did last night?”   
“It helps to stay present, focus on what you can find in the surroundings, scents, touch, sounds even. Whatever you need to bring you back.” There’s a pause, as he weighs up what to say next. “And you do need to talk to someone about this.” Gaël scoffs a little. “No, it’ll help. Especially with the coping mechanisms and learning triggers.”  
“Because obviously I can’t do that with you.”   
“Of course you can, but as a friend. This isn’t professional advice, I can’t prescribe you anything or refer you.”   
“But you can help.” Gaël looks at him in a way that feels far too desperate in the turn of his eyes and the creasing of his cheek. Célestin sighs.  
“In ways. But-”  
“Please, it’s driving me mad and so far you’re the only one who can- Notice.”  
“Because- I’ve been there Gaël. Not PTSD, not that but the panic and anxiety. Parental expectation takes it out of you, especially when you live with them through uni. I wasn’t good enough, and it was a constant lie about how much work I was doing, where I was going, what my lecturers thought of me. I got a 2:1 in just one essay and it drove me mad for weeks. I was having… Dreams about this essay and that it was a downward spiral and blahblahblah. And I know that seems minute comparatively but I want you to know I understand. And the others would too, you know people get good at hiding things.”  
“I can’t tell them. Émilen already things I’m crazy.”   
“You’d be surprised.” Célestin smiles. “He really cares for people, and that includes you if you let him. He was worried, after last time.”  
“When I’m ready, maybe then. When I can explain.” Célestin nods, bringing his mug to his lips.   
“Your comfort has to be priority. Which means in meetings too. If you don’t like a topic, or it gets too much you can step out. Most of us have had to do that before.”   
“It just feels wrong when you’re the one doing it.”   
“Make an excuse, no one’s going to say no to another round.”   
“I’ll be bled dry.” He smiles wryly, and Célestin chuckles over his mug.   
“Just don’t let the party trio get their claws in and you’ll be fine.”

That evening he meets Blaise at the boxing ring, ready to transfer some of his nervous energy into a punch bag. Blaise grins that wide, one-tooth-missing grin at him as he approaches and slings a heavy arm over his shoulder.   
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back after last week.”   
“And let you have all the glory?” Gaël raises an eyebrow up at him. “Not a chance. You’re mine tonight.”   
“Well if you put it like that.” Blaise wiggles his eyebrows, pulling him firm against his side and Gaël shoves him off with a laugh.   
“Christ, not like that!”   
“Oi, you’d be lucky to have me Gaël Dubois.” He mock pouts, and Gaël pats his arm teasingly.   
“Maybe another time Blaise.” Because who knows at this point. He glances up with a jokey grin. “But for now I’m itching to punch you in that pretty face.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's short, and that it's been so long! On everything... I'm back at uni so not got so much time to finish things off but we are getting there I promise! I might even get a Halloween special out - here's hoping!  
> But for now enjoy the fact I gave poor Gaël PTSD. It wasn't entirely intentional, and then as I was writing I realised and was like oh... OH. So there you go... Have fun

**Author's Note:**

> Influenced first off by Richard Siken's Planet of Love (http://blackandbluemagpie.tumblr.com/post/65940038252/soft-as-sin-planet-of-love-richard-siken)  
> Then later by this post (http://blackandbluemagpie.tumblr.com/post/69104332461/time-stands-still-beauty-in-all-he-is-i-will-be) featuring lyrics from For A Thousand Years by Christina Perri
> 
> Am working on everything else, just needed to get this up


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